If welcome once thou count'st it gain; Thou art not daunted, 20 Nor car'st if thou be set at naught; And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. Be Violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs chuse; Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling; Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 30 Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling. If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He need but look about.
